Thinking, about cycling. "Anybody whose mind is proud enough not to breed true secretly carries a bomb at the back of his brain; and so I suggest, just for the fun of the thing, taking that private bomb and carefully dropping it upon the model city of commonsense." (This blog began as an archive of DYNAMITE!, the newsletter of London Dynamo cycling club, which you can still access via "DYNAMITE! filed" in the list below on the left.)

Posts Tagged ‘Cyclefit’

London Dynamo’s social secretary Nigel Smith recently asked me to write an account of the club’s brief history for a short book he’s putting together as part of our forthcoming tenth anniversary celebrations. I declined because I would struggle to accurately chronicle all the events that have taken place since I stopped writing the newsletter five years ago. But I told him I’d provide a link to issues 100 and 200 of DYNAMITE!, which together comprise a reasonably humorous synopsis of Dynamo’s first half-decade and could be reproduced in his members-only tome. Nigel also wanted to have a look at some old Dynamo-related photos in my possession which he could consider for inclusion. So instead of emailing all that stuff over to him, I thought I’d stick it on here instead. Behold the contents of my virtual musty shoebox!

A world exclusive for The DYNAMITE! Files: this is the only photograph on the interweb (try a Google image search if you don’t believe me) where you can see the face our elusive leader Paul Harknett. The image captures Lord Harknett’s brief moment of fame at the Tour of Langkawi’s opening stage in 2007, where many confused Malaysians lingering around the finish thought he was a professional cyclist (bald head, compact physique, blue jersey, getting on a bit – yeah, it’s probably Levi Leipheimer). As the real pros disappeared into their team buses, Paul was only too happy to pose for a number of photos and conduct an interview for a Japanese TV station. What a gent!

WHO: Phil Cavell
WHERE: GPM10 Etape training camp
PHOTOGRAPHER: Unknown
In 2005, when his Covent Garden bike boutique was the club’s main sponsor, Cyclefit guru Phil Cavell ventured up a few French mountains armed only with a bicycle, a sense of self-belief and a substandard level of fitness. I don’t know which mountain he was on when this photo was taken, and judging by his face, neither does he. Cycling is truly a cruel mistress, and a love of her charms can make a happy man very old.

Taken at the Christmas social pre-dinner drinks in 2005, this classic image remains the most succinct expression of the two chums’ contrasting characters. Guysie on the right, so focussed yet slightly confused. Stu, probably slightly confused and certainly unfocused. Also, by scribbling two words on this image, I have introduced an exciting new angle on a well-worn “which is better?” debate.

Poor Streuley. Arriving at Palma airport for the Dynamo training camp in April 2006, the former mountain biker discovered all his luggage and his bike had gone missing somewhere between Heathrow and Mallorca. But did he let that get him down? Of course not – and here’s the proof, as the baby-faced wonderman delights in showing off his superior bike-handling skills during a rest day coffee stop.
WHO: Guy Andrews
WHERE: Mallorca 2006 training camp time trial
PHOTOGRAPHER: Unknown

To a casual onlooker, it may seem like Rouleur’s head honcho, seasoned time trialist and Dynamo co-founder Guy Andrews wasn’t taking this prestigious event entirely seriously.

A frankly terrible photo from a compositional perspective, and I apologise to Stu for cutting off half his face. Although, come to think of it, he could have been photobombing – in which case, Stu, you bloody idiot, you’ve spoilt a perfectly good snap of the 2006 Christmas social. Anyway, Stupot isn’t the most important element of this scene, and it was only a few months ago that the person in the background pointed this out to me. Look behind ‘Pinky’ Gardner’s left shoulder and you will see none other than Richard Simmonds – Jenny’s future husband, who she met later that evening. Awwww!
WHO: Russell Short and Martin Garratt
WHERE: Richmond Park
PHOTOGRAPHER: Me

It’s always a unique joy to see Dynamo’s lankiest rider side-by-side with the appropriately-named Mr Short. Despite seeing this scene many times during the past decade, I only thought to take a photo a few weeks ago as we enjoyed a leisurely post-Parkride lap together.

WHO: Someone or other
WHERE: Eastway
PHOTOGRAPHER: John Mullineaux, ukcyclesport.com

Seven years before Bradley Wiggins sported a pair of sideburns during his victorious Tour de France, a trailblazing Dynamo showed off a magnificent pair of chops at the legendary Lea Valley circuit. I wonder whatever became of him.

I have packed away my Robot Bike From The Future (electronic gears, green like a laser beam, emblazoned with the name of the director of Blade Runner) ready for an imminent four-day trip to south-east France for the Challenge Vercors, which I’ll be riding with my London Dynamo clubmates on Sunday. The Vercors is a 162km sportive which, in a clever, daring and exciting twist, is this year being held amid temperatures of around 5C. I guess the fates decided that 3,200km of ascending and descending wouldn’t be challenging enough without getting our wotsits frozen as well.

I would’ve liked to complement my green, black and white bicycle on this trip with a pair of green, black and white bidons. Sadly, I only have one, and I’m unable to get another exactly like it because Bikepark, the shop that produced it, is no longer around.

So I will be taking a pair of neutral-coloured Camelbacks instead.

Would my chums Phil Cavell and Julian Wall at Cyclefit, the business Bikepark morphed into, be prepared to issue a strictly limited edition retro Bikepark bottle, replete with the long-defunct URL? They specialise in bespoke bicycles, so this sort of thing should be right up their strada. In terms of quantity, I’m thinking of a number in the area of one. Certainly less than two.

I found her when I wasn’t looking. “Where are you from?” I asked. “Lots of different places,” she replied. She was mimicking Christopher Lambert’s response, and indeterminately European accent, from the film Highlander. I didn’t get the joke, but I somehow managed to get her number that night.

A few months after we met, we moved in together. One evening, as we walked home from a curry house, slightly drunk, I found the perfect pair of spectacle frames – black, square and narrow – looking up at me from the pavement with its arms folded back. I had my prescription fitted and wore those glasses until the sweat of successive summers turned the plastic a whitish grey. By that time we’d moved to a nicer part of town and I’d got a better job, through which I received an invitation to visit Belgium; a place called Zolder was on the itinerary. I accepted on a whim and saw Mario Cipollini become world champion. I never asked to be skinny or fit, but that’s what happened not long after.

These incidents that have shaped and defined parts of my identity happened by accident. So by the time I decided to find a bike that would last me many years, I knew the sensible procedure of establishing performance criteria and comparing the aesthetics of various components wasn’t going to happen. To put it simply, I never chose my bike; I gave in to chance and let the bike choose me.

The first time I saw it was on a deluged club run in the spring of 2003. The owner, one of only five members who had braved the downpour, was taking the bike out for its debut ride. He disappeared up the first hill and that was the last we saw of him that day. Three years later, I bought that bike in its essence: frame (Merlin Cyrene), fork (Reynolds Ouzo Pro) and a Royce bottom bracket. I had no idea how I wanted to complete the bike. Why did I end up choosing Ksyrium SLs? Because I knew someone who had inadvertently tested their durability by crashing into a tree (the front wheel, and the rider, survived more or less intact). Chorus for the groupset, because Record felt like an extravagance. I left it to a mechanic friend to decide the rest and build up the bike for me.

If you want to know whether or not your bike is truly suited to you, then sleep with it by your bed. Go to sleep late, wake up too early, and look at it as soon as you get up. Does it make you want to ride, even if your body is telling you not to bother? Then congratulations, you have chosen a great bicycle. For years I kept the Merlin next to our bed (yes, our bed – I managed to keep the girl) alongside an aluminium Merckx and a stickerless steel Glider, and it still inspires me to ride more than its two companions. Gleaming, naked titanium, white bar tape and white Fizik Aliante saddle: it looks indomitable, enduring, immortal, even though I’m no Christopher Lambert. The chunkier and more functional Campag gets, the more elegant my 2006 cranks look. And the Ksyriums, originally chosen out of practicality, please me with the simplicity of their thick spokes; when a child draws a pair of bicycle wheels, they draw SLs or something like them.

Performance-wise, it rides smoothly with just enough bite to get me over the sharpest bits of the Monte Grappa, the Barbotto or the Bwlch. But above all, what I like most about it is its arbitrary nature: an American frame, an Italian groupset, conjured into being through serendipity and indecision, via a workshop in Surrey. A bike from lots of different places.

Nine years ago, Jen and I went to a bar on the Haymarket, had a few drinks, met some fellow cycling fans and watched Lance Armstrong fall off his bike. The famous tumble on the road to Luz Ardiden caused by a spectator’s musette caught in Armstrong’s handlebars had taken place earlier that day, although we hadn’t turned up with the intention of watching the yellow jersey and Iban Mayo have a whoops-a-daisy. We didn’t even know it had happened – both of us had been at work, Twitter hadn’t been invented yet, and mainstream news outlets didn’t give a toss. The reason why we went to watch a big screen at a West End watering hole had something to do with engaging in what was a unique experience for us in 2003: being in a room with other bicyclepeople who liked watching bicycle races. Because we knew very few people who did.

The shindig at the Sports Café was organised by Phil Cavell and Julian Wall of Bikepark in Covent Garden, which later evolved into Cyclefit, the business which is more or less responsible for bicycle fitting becoming a standard part of the bike-buying process. Paul Callinan, who had chatted to me at the Hillingdon circuit when I tentatively started racing, was among those attending. A few months later, after Bikepark stepped down from organising its two popular weekend group rides, Paul and a couple of friends would seize the momentum by reviving a name that Jules had coined in the mid-nineties for the early incarnation of his shop’s team – and so it came to pass that the all-new London Dynamo, which started life as a discussion in Paul’s kitchen, became a phenomenon that swiftly (and inadvertently) grew to be bigger than every long-established club in the south-east. Also propping up the bar on that July evening was Nick Peacock (he later sold me his Merlin frame after he became Dynamo’s second club captain, although I think we didn’t get round to speaking to each other that night) and triathlete-turned-demon-time-trialist Martin Williamson, one of many kindly ’Mos who gave me a lift to races during my first season as a non-car-owning fourth cat. But that night we were all more or less strangers to each other.

So there we all were, the many and varied chums of Bikepark, watching Armstrong fall off, get back up, wallop his groin into his top tube as he came out of his pedal and then solo away to victory. Chapeau! Except no one exclaimed “Chapeau!” or “Hat!” because it hadn’t occurred to any of us yet that pretension or irony had a place in cycling. The mood was more of muted amazement rather than the whooping, roaring enthusiasm you now get at Look Mum No Hands! during an eventful moment of a big race. This was fascination before it evolved into fandom. And we all know the aspects of Armstrong’s story that fascinated us: beating cancer and then beating everyone, a singular character with a single ball. Personally, I loved watching his movements on the bike, swaggering when he was out of the saddle, and the robotic, propulsive, high cadence when he was seated – a contained, measured ferocity. Yet most of the conversations that night weren’t about Armstrong or pro cycling, but about our own, more modest, adventures: where we had been riding, where we planned to ride or race, each of us glimpsing the others’ characters and experience (invariably much greater than mine) by learning about their cycling history.

And when Dynamo began, I still didn’t know who my riding chums actually were. They each had a name, a bike and stories about their riding, all of which helped to identify the less vocal members who dwelt beneath the ubiquitous mask of helmet and sunglasses, but the life they lived beyond our weekly 50-mile training loop across the Surrey Hills was a distant vista. Before setting out one Sunday, Paul muttered wearily to me about having practically no sleep because he had been on call all night. Ah-ha, I thought – a doctor! It took a while for me to discover that he actually worked in IT for a bank, and being on call involved piping zeroes and ones to the Far East in the early hours of the morning. But at least I knew his name – I can still recall the delight at discovering “Nicholas Peacock” on the finishing list of Dynamo’s inaugural Beginners’ Series race, because the surname was part of a long-standing in-joke between myself and Jen. (And as it’s a slightly bizarre gag which isn’t aimed at Nick, it’s probably best Jen and I keep it to ourselves…)

Dynamos were Dynanonymous to each other – but the one name everyone knew, whether they had a rich history of riding or had just started out, was Lance Armstrong. There was a unique combination of factors that led to Dynamo confounding a British Cycling official’s prediction to Paul that we would probably attract a total of around two dozen members: as the only club to have a regular ride in the cycling mecca of Richmond Park, we were conspicuous; we welcomed all-comers; we were, and still are, a friendly bunch; and, in a major departure from the aesthetic of the time, our jersey didn’t comprise a clumsy mélange of fonts and colours or resemble something an estate agent might hammer onto a stick. But I think the main reason why Dynamo grew so rapidly was due to a pool of new, unaffiliated riders who had recently taken up the sport after an English-speaking athlete had caught their attention by repeatedly winning the Tour de France. Armstrong was the key that unlocked the entrance to a previously clandestine world – and if he could get on a bike after what he had been through, then why couldn’t you?

So the blue train of the US Postal Service team unwittingly begat a blue, black and orange locomotive – although it is there that the parallels, like two diesels thundering towards each other, must screech to a halt. I can dimly remember a line in Procycling magazine claiming that Armstrong-related catchphrases such as “No chain! No chain!” and “How d’you like them apples?” had become de rigueur on club runs – and oh, how I cringed, because from my experience of Dynamo, amateur cycling didn’t take hero worship or wish fulfillment to those extremes. Talking about Armstrong, or pro cycling generally, was an excuse for men (sadly, there were only men in those days) to indulge in the necessary human act of gossiping, sharing our awe about feats that had amazed us, trading information, often as a means of trying to work out who would do what the next time around. Would Jan Ullrich ever win another Tour? Could winning the Dauphiné prove to be a poison chalice for the Texan? And, inevitably, along came the only question that never went away: do you think Lance is clean?

Fast forward a few years, and half a dozen ’Mos are sitting on one of the benches outside the Roehampton Gate café in Richmond Park after the Parkride. I’m one of them; two others are also long-standing members (although they’re not the Dynamos I mentioned earlier). Armstrong has decided not to contest the US Anti-Doping Agency’s case against him, and the consensus around the table is that, as a result, no one will truly know if the man stripped of his seven Tour wins ever cheated. Most think the case should never have been pursued because it happened a long time ago, everyone was at it, and USADA doesn’t have any authority in the matter anyway. One Dynamo calls USADA boss Travis Tygart “Travis Dickface”.

Well, Mr Dickface does have the authority, and USADA’s 200-page report released yesterday, featuring damning testimony from every American Tour rider who rode for USPS and Discovery, may convince the doubting Dynamos I listened to that morning. Perhaps I should have pointed them in the direction of the truth: there were some professional cyclists who asked Tygart to sit in as an observer when they were questioned as part of the original federal investigation into USPS – so USADA had to pursue the allegations, because this is what they are funded to do. Anything less would have been corrupt.

But I didn’t say anything. And I’m pleased I kept my trap shut, because the opinions I heard that morning were not those of diehard fans desperately clutching at straws; they were an expression of disconnection from a complicated story that has been twisting and turning for years. True, a few of my cycling chums have followed the slow, inexorable exposure of the EPO years, but they tend to be the minority whose interest in pro cycling began prior to Armstrong’s appearance. I get the impression that most of the cyclists I know have simply not followed the diffuse trail of whispers and nose-tapping which has been played out mostly on fan sites and forums. They’re not angry or disappointed about Armstrong’s fall from grace, because they’ve not been exposed to much of those areas of the internet where anger and disappointment reigns. Threads on our own forum these days about tyre choice, groupsets or any other quotidian aspect of bike riding dwarf those about Armstrong, while the full-throated, joyful cheers we’ve given to Wiggins, Cavendish and other home-grown heroes are more passionate, more engaged than the interest anyone had showed for the Texan. One reason for that enthusiasm is that the likes of Wiggo and Cav are British, and their Olympic exploits were performed on roads we’ve all ridden. Another reason, of course, is that the performances have become more believable.

So let’s remember the Tour de France 1999-2005 in this way: lots of people took loads of drugs and did some amazing things, and we all had a good time witnessing them. But like the big screen looming over our conversations that night at the Sports Café, Armstrong’s adventures have proved to be just the background noise to our own experiences on bicycles. It’s not about the bike rider who brought us together – if, indeed, it ever was.

5 UP – Fabian Cancellara
Funny old place, Switzerland. For generations, the benign dictatorship of Wonka-like chocolatiers which constitutes the Swiss government has been arming its soldiers with nothing more than bottle-openers-cum-screwdrivers in a bid to make the world laugh so heartily at them that it forgets the dreaded phrase “Nazi gold” – and now, in a new wave of comedy propaganda, the country has finally produced a language of its own, courtesy of its top cycleperson. That last bit is not strictly accurate, of course: everyone knows that the old story about Fabian Cancellara racing on a motorised bicycle was total bunkum because he’s not actually a person but an actual machine, soldered together in a top-secret Bern laboratory. Yet it is nevertheless true that RoboFab’s formidably complex central processing unit has fashioned its own tongue, which The DYNAMITE! Files likes to call Fablish. The distinguishing characteristics of Fablishness, as evinced in the mighty mandroid’s tweets during the last few weeks, are a preponderance of phonetics (“Littel nap bevor the tt”, “i taket back”), a creative use of plosives (“o’grady stolen my planket”), everyday expressions rendered as programmed instructions (“Go to bed for sleep”) and an emotionless deployment of double entendres (“Organzier think we are tools… up and down”). Meanwhile, in a different corner of the Twitterverse, there is another robot who has difficulty with his spelling, and the lonely little fella is looking for a friend. If only the friendly Fabster would team up with poor old dmuper so the lovelorn Popjustice droid might no longer feel “soalone”. Ah, if only…

4 DOWN – Testicles
It takes balls to unleash a radical new design on a doubting world – even more so if you happen to be Ken Link, whose gentlemen’s area must surely be in a sorry state if his patented noseless saddle is anything to go by. Despite being marketed with the intriguing slogan “testicles relaxing”, the crescent-shaped contraption appears to invite the user to dangle his precious cargo in the narrow gap between its rails, which would, one surmises, produce an unwanted yank should you suddenly decide to launch a devastating attack, which would surely be devastating for all the wrong reasons. Still, one industry expert seemed quite taken by the “bouncy” ride the saddle produced, and it looks like it would swiftly eject the rider should he hit a pothole, so this radical invention could theoretically ease saddle soreness because you would be too scared to sit on the ruddy thing. Problem solved!

3 UP – Ben Serotta Nothing seems to surprise jaded hardman Guy Andrews, so The DYNAMITE! Files was tickled to hear that the world-weary Rouleur editor was taken aback when he returned to his Cyclefit stomping ground last week and saw for the first time its not-so-recent transformation into a doctor’s beige waiting room. Guy and his old Covent Garden mucker Phil Cavell had a lot to talk about, judging by the photo on the right, so spare a thought for Ben Serotta, the mild-mannered titan of the titanium world sitting in the background, who appears to be patiently listening to the two opinionated pals bantering in their usual forceful style prior to his sell-out talk. You can’t help thinking that Gino’s canine face must surely express what Ben is feeling on the inside. In other news, Cyclefit have yet to announce the winner of their caption competition. (Number of entries: two. One of them is reproduced above. C’mon – get on with it, fellas!)

2 DOWN – Floyd Landis and Paul Kimmage
Not so much a news item, more of an awkward confession, and the hardcore anti-dopers among you may want to sit down for this bombshell: over many, many weeks, The DYNAMITE! Files has tried, and repeatedly failed, to read the entire transcript of the infamous seven-hour Landis/Kimmage powwow. There. It’s out, at last: this blog is a lightweight. As if you didn’t already know. Now let’s move on, OK?
1 DOWN – A bicycle made by a big printer
It’s been coated in a special hi-tech anti-wind lacquer (not true), the version given to Mark Cavendish has been endowed with additional stiffness (probably not true), and it was the bike HTC’s Matt Goss rode to victory at Milan-San Remo on Saturday (definitely true, because it was on the telly and everything). With Specialized’s marketing strategy producing a stream of piffle peppered with the occasional fact, it’s unsurprising that the McLaren-designed Venge this week eclipsed another unique British innovation: the printed bicycle. A proper rideable bike, spat out by a kind of printer! Made from nylon! Fused by lasers! And as strong as steel! Hurrah! All thrilling stuff, although if you want to prolong your excitement, it’s probably best to ignore the noise at the end of its appearance on BBC Breakfast. Or just tell yourself it’s Bill Turnbull’s joints. Doing Strictly can really mess you up like that.

AUSTIN MAESTRO
+++ Cam is king of the hill +++
He is known for his meticulous preparation, spending many weeks assailing the mountains of Mallorca to hone his form as he dutifully monitors his heart rate and power output readings – but in a rare lapse of judgment, careful Kiwi RICHARD ‘PLACING’ MASON almost surrendered a podium spot to 4th-placed RUSSELL ‘RUSTY’ SHORT thanks to his Delgado-like arrival at the starting line of the inaugural Dynamo Hill Climb Championships on Saturday. The ginger wonder had omitted to check his start time, which was earlier than scheduled due to a number of DNS places, so he hurtled down Leith Hill past timekeeper WILL ‘SEE YA’ HAYTER just as his chum announced he had 15 seconds to go. What a palaver! Stunned Rich braked and frantically tore off the long-sleeve jersey he had donned for his warm-up – but taking pity on the flustered redhead, Will generously decided to reschedule Rich’s ride up the mile-long ascent, which he eventually completed in 00:04:33 to take 3rd. Talented tester MARTIN ‘PIN-UP’ WILLIAMSON finished one second ahead to nab 2nd, while ALEX ‘BALFIE’ BALFOUR won the 85kg-and-over category on his elegant powder-blue fixie, clocking 00:05:19. Vets winner ROB ‘THE SAINT’ JEFFROY clocked five minutes exactly, 4th cat champ HARRY LITTLECHILD did 00:05:09, and bashful women’s winner JO ALLEN finished in 00:05:28 before disappearing prior to the presentation of her award – but the overall winner on this surprisingly mild, sunny day was none other than CAMERON ‘STEVE’ AUSTIN with a time of 00:04:24… http://tinyurl.com/6eb8aq. And the lucky whippersnapper scored his second win of the week by bagging a free CycleFit courtesy of the club’s sponsors, who also gave away a Vo2 test worth £145 to JASON ‘WILLS’ GREEN. Cam and Jase’s names were pulled out of the hat after they entered a draw at CycleFit’s Dynamo-only “performance evening” last month, which the Covent Garden crew plan to repeat in the near future – but in the meantime, you lucky lot have got another bash to look forward to. So here comes another reminder to get those cheques in…

THE ARTS OF A GOOD PARTY
+++ End-of-year bash beckons +++
The London Dynamo Annual Social And Awards are almost upon us – so if you want to enjoy as much food and drink as you can handle for just £40, then come along and join all your favourite Dynamates at the Arts Club in Mayfair… http://tinyurl.com/6n63x5&#8230; on Thursday 4th December for what promises to be another enjoyable chapter in the great club institution that is the end-of-year-bash. Make your cheque payable to London Dynamo and post it to social secretary PAUL ‘ALL BLUE’ HARKNETT at is 30 Tudor Gardens, Twickenham TW1 4LE – and please include an e-mail address for confirmation. We’ll see you there!

COMING TO AN END
The 2008 run of DYNAMITE! is almost at a close, Dynamates, but please keep Dyna-mailing your news and gossip to dynamite@londondynamo.co.uk. The deadline, as ever, is Wednesday afternoon for Friday’s edition. We’ll be back in seven days for a special end-of-year round-up – but for now, as the chequered flag comes into view, it only remains for us to remind you about…

9am: Hampton Court bridge, south side, Surrey Hills ride. Fifty-ish miles at a steady pace. Stop at Box Hill for tea and cake. Bring a pump, inner tubes, drink, two stopwatches, and a pair of folding chairs.